Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Whether they should stand or go;

  And Benjamin is groping near them

  Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them.

  He is astounded,—wonder not,—

  With such a charge in such a spot;

  Astounded in the mountain gap

  With thunder-peals, clap after clap,

  Close-treading on the silent flashes—

  And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes

  Among the rocks; with weight of rain, 200

  And sullen motions long and slow,

  That to a dreary distance go—

  Till, breaking in upon the dying strain,

  A rending o’er his head begins the fray again.

  Meanwhile, uncertain what to do,

  And oftentimes compelled to halt,

  The horses cautiously pursue

  Their way, without mishap or fault;

  And now have reached that pile of stones,

  Heaped over brave King Dunmail’s bones; 210

  His who had once supreme command,

  Last king of rocky Cumberland;

  His bones, and those of all his Power

  Slain here in a disastrous hour!

  When, passing through this narrow strait,

  Stony, and dark, and desolate,

  Benjamin can faintly hear

  A voice that comes from some one near,

  A female voice—Whoe’er you be,

  Stop,” it exclaimed, “and pity me!” 220

  And, less in pity than in wonder,

  Amid the darkness and the thunder,

  The Waggoner, with prompt command,

  Summons his horses to a stand.

  While, with increasing agitation,

  The Woman urged her supplication,

  In rueful words, with sobs between—

  The voice of tears that fell unseen;

  There came a flash—a startling glare,

  And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare! 230

  ‘Tis not a time for nice suggestion,

  And Benjamin, without a question,

  Taking her for some way-worn rover,

  Said, “Mount, and get you under cover!”

  Another voice, in tone as hoarse

  As a swoln brook with rugged course,

  Cried out, “Good brother, why so fast?

  I’ve had a glimpse of you—’avast!’

  Or, since it suits you to be civil,

  Take her at once—for good and evil!” 240

  “It is my Husband,” softly said

  The Woman, as if half afraid:

  By this time she was snug within,

  Through help of honest Benjamin;

  She and her Babe, which to her breast

  With thankfulness the Mother pressed;

  And now the same strong voice more near

  Said cordially, “My Friend, what cheer?

  Rough doings these! as God’s my judge,

  The sky owes somebody a grudge! 250

  We’ve had in half an hour or less

  A twelvemonth’s terror and distress!”

  Then Benjamin entreats the Man

  Would mount, too, quickly as he can:

  The Sailor—Sailor now no more,

  But such he had been heretofore—

  To courteous Benjamin replied,

  “Go you your way, and mind not me;

  For I must have, whate’er betide,

  My Ass and fifty things beside,—260

  Go, and I’ll follow speedily!”

  The Waggon moves—and with its load

  Descends along the sloping road;

  And the rough Sailor instantly

  Turns to a little tent hard by:

  For when, at closing-in of day,

  The family had come that way,

  Green pasture and the soft warm air

  Tempted them to settle there.—

  Green is the grass for beast to graze, 270

  Around the stones of Dunmail-raise!

  The Sailor gathers up his bed,

  Takes down the canvas overhead;

  And, after farewell to the place,

  A parting word—though not of grace,

  Pursues, with Ass and all his store,

  The way the Waggon went before.

  CANTO SECOND

  IF Wytheburn’s modest House of prayer,

  As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,

  Had, with its belfry’s humble stock, 280

  A little pair that hang in air,

  Been mistress also of a clock,

  (And one, too, not in crazy plight)

  Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling

  Under the brow of old Helvellyn—

  Its bead-roll of midnight,

  Then, when the Hero of my tale

  Was passing by, and, down the vale

  (The vale now silent, hushed I ween

  As if a storm had never been)290

  Proceeding with a mind at ease;

  While the old Familiar of the seas,

  Intent to use his utmost haste,

  Gained ground upon the Waggon fast,

  And gives another lusty cheer;

  For spite of rumbling of the wheels,

  A welcome greeting he can hear;—

  It is a fiddle in its glee

  Dinning from the CHERRY TREE!

  Thence the sound—the light is there— 300

  As Benjamin is now aware,

  Who, to his inward thoughts confined,

  Had almost reached the festive door,

  When, startled by the Sailor’s roar,

  He hears a sound and sees a light,

  And in a moment calls to mind

  That ‘tis the village MERRY-NIGHT!

  Although before in no dejection,

  At this insidious recollection

  His heart with sudden joy is filled,— 310

  His ears are by the music thrilled,

  His eyes take pleasure in the road

  Glittering before him bright and broad;

  And Benjamin is wet and cold,

  And there are reasons manifold

  That make the good, tow’rds which he’s yearning,

  Look fairly like a lawful earning.

  Nor has thought time to come and go,

  To vibrate between yes and no;

  For, cries the Sailor, “Glorious chance 320

  That blew us hither!—let him dance,

  Who can or will!—my honest soul,

  Our treat shall be a friendly bowl!”

  He draws him to the door—”Come in,

  Come, come,” cries he to Benjamin!

  And Benjamin—ah, woe is me!

  Gave the word—the horses heard

  And halted, though reluctantly.

  “Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have we,

  Feasting at the CHERRY TREE!”330

  This was the outside proclamation,

  This was the inside salutation;

  What bustling—jostling—high and low!

  A universal overflow!

  What tankards foaming from the tap!

  What store of cakes in every lap!

  What thumping—stumping—overhead!

  The thunder had not been more busy:

  With such a stir you would have said,

  This little place may well be dizzy! 340

  ‘Tis who can dance with greatest vigour—

  ‘Tis what can be most prompt and eager;

  As if it heard the fiddle’s call,

  The pewter clatters on the wall;

  The very bacon shows its feeling,

  Swinging from the smoky ceiling!

  A steaming bowl, a blazing fire,

  What greater good can heart desire?

  ‘Twere worth a wise man’s while to try

  The utmost anger of the sky:350

  To ‘seek’ for thoughts of a gloomy cast,

  If such the bright amends at last.

  Now should you say I judge a
miss,

  The CHERRY TREE shows proof of this;

  For soon of all the happy there,

  Our Travellers are the happiest pair;

  All care with Benjamin is gone—

  A Caesar past the Rubicon!

  He thinks not of his long, long strife;—

  The Sailor, Man by nature gay, 360

  Hath no resolves to throw away;

  And he hath now forgot his Wife,

  Hath quite forgotten her—or may be

  Thinks her the luckiest soul on earth,

  Within that warm and peaceful berth,

  Under cover,

  Terror over,

  Sleeping by her sleeping Baby,

  With bowl that sped from hand to hand,

  The gladdest of the gladsome band, 370

  Amid their own delight and fun,

  They hear—when every dance is done,

  When every whirling bout is o’er—

  The fiddle’s ‘squeak’—that call to bliss,

  Ever followed by a kiss;

  They envy not the happy lot,

  But enjoy their own the more!

  While thus our jocund Travellers fare,

  Up springs the Sailor from his chair—

  Limps (for I might have told before 380

  That he was lame) across the floor—

  Is gone—returns—and with a prize;

  With what?—a Ship of lusty size;

  A gallant stately Man-of-war,

  Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car.

  Surprise to all, but most surprise

  To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes,

  Not knowing that he had befriended

  A Man so gloriously attended!

  “This,” cries the Sailor, “a Third-rate is— 390

  Stand back, and you shall see her gratis!

  This was the Flag-ship at the Nile,

  The Vanguard—you may smirk and smile,

  But, pretty Maid, if you look near,

  You’ll find you’ve much in little here!

  A nobler ship did never swim,

  And you shall see her in full trim:

  I’ll set, my friends, to do you honour,

  Set every inch of sail upon her.”

  So said, so done; and masts, sails, yards, 400

  He names them all; and interlards

  His speech with uncouth terms of art,

  Accomplished in the showman’s part;

  And then, as from a sudden check,

  Cries out—”‘Tis there, the quarter-deck

  On which brave Admiral Nelson stood—

  A sight that would have roused your blood!

  One eye he had, which, bright as ten,

  Burned like a fire among his men;

  Let this be land, and that be sea, 410

  Here lay the French—and ‘thus’ came we!”

  Hushed was by this the fiddle’s sound,

  The dancers all were gathered round,

  And, such the stillness of the house,

  You might have heard a nibbling mouse;

  While, borrowing helps where’er he may,

  The Sailor through the story runs

  Of ships to ships and guns to guns;

  And does his utmost to display

  The dismal conflict, and the might 420

  And terror of that marvellous night!

  “A bowl, a bowl of double measure,”

  Cries Benjamin, “a draught of length,

  To Nelson, England’s pride and treasure,

  Her bulwark and her tower of strength!”

  When Benjamin had seized the bowl,

  The mastiff, from beneath the waggon,

  Where he lay, watchful as a dragon,

  Rattled his chain;—’twas all in vain,

  For Benjamin, triumphant soul! 430

  He heard the monitory growl;

  Heard—and in opposition quaffed

  A deep, determined, desperate draught!

  Nor did the battered Tar forget,

  Or flinch from what he deemed his debt:

  Then, like a hero crowned with laurel,

  Back to her place the ship he led;

  Wheeled her back in full apparel;

  And so, flag flying at mast head,

  Re-yoked her to the Ass:—anon, 440

  Cries Benjamin, “We must be gone.

  Thus, after two hours’ hearty stay,

  Again behold them on their way!

  CANTO THIRD

  RIGHT gladly had the horses stirred,

  When they the wished-for greeting heard,

  The whip’s loud notice from the door,

  That they were free to move once more.

  You think, those doings must have bred

  In them disheartening doubts and dread;

  No, not a horse of all the eight, 450

  Although it be a moonless night,

  Fears either for himself or freight;

  For this they know (and let it hide,

  In part, the offences of their guide)

  That Benjamin, with clouded brains,

  Is worth the best with all their pains;

  And, if they had a prayer to make,

  The prayer would be that they may take

  With him whatever comes in course,

  The better fortune or the worse; 460

  That no one else may have business near them,

  And, drunk or sober, he may steer them.

  So, forth in dauntless mood they fare,

  And with them goes the guardian pair.

  Now, heroes, for the true commotion,

  The triumph of your late devotion

  Can aught on earth impede delight,

  Still mounting to a higher height;

  And higher still—a greedy flight!

  Can any low-born care pursue her, 470

  Can any mortal clog come to her?

  No notion have they—not a thought,

  That is from joyless regions brought!

  And, while they coast the silent lake,

  Their inspiration I partake;

  Share their empyreal spirits—yea,

  With their enraptured vision, see—

  O fancy—what a jubilee!

  What shifting pictures—clad in gleams

  Of colour bright as feverish dreams! 480

  Earth, spangled sky, and lake serene,

  Involved and restless all—a scene

  Pregnant with mutual exaltation,

  Rich change, and multiplied creation!

  This sight to me the Muse imparts;—

  And then, what kindness in their hearts!

  What tears of rapture, what vow-making,

  Profound entreaties, and hand-shaking!

  What solemn, vacant, interlacing,

  As if they’d fall asleep embracing! 490

  Then, in the turbulence of glee,

  And in the excess of amity,

  Says Benjamin, “That Ass of thine,

  He spoils thy sport, and hinders mine:

  If he were tethered to the waggon,

  He’d drag as well what he is dragging,

  And we, as brother should with brother,

  Might trudge it alongside each other!”

  Forthwith, obedient to command,

  The horses made a quiet stand; 500

  And to the waggon’s skirts was tied

  The Creature, by the Mastiff’s side,

  The Mastiff wondering, and perplext

  With dread of what will happen next;

  And thinking it but sorry cheer,

  To have such company so near!

  This new arrangement made, the Wain

  Through the still night proceeds again;

  No Moon hath risen her light to lend;

  But indistinctly may be kenned 510

  The VANGUARD, following close behind,

  Sails spread, as if to catch the wind!

  “Thy wife and child are snug and warm,

  Thy ship will travel
without harm;

  I like,” said Benjamin, “her shape and stature:

  And this of mine—this bulky creature

  Of which I have the steering—this,

  Seen fairly, is not much amiss!

  We want your streamers, friend, you know;

  But, altogether as we go, 520

  We make a kind of handsome show!

  Among these hills, from first to last,

  We’ve weathered many a furious blast;

  Hard passage forcing on, with head

  Against the storm, and canvas spread.

  I hate a boaster; but to thee

  Will say’t, who know’st both land and sea,

  The unluckiest hulk that stems the brine

  Is hardly worse beset than mine,

  When cross-winds on her quarter beat; 530

  And, fairly lifted from my feet,

  I stagger onward—heaven knows how;

  But not so pleasantly as now:

  Poor pilot I, by snows confounded,

  And many a foundrous pit surrounded!

  Yet here we are, by night and day

  Grinding through rough and smooth our way;

  Through foul and fair our task fulfilling;

  And long shall be so yet—God willing!”

  “Ay,” said the Tar, “through fair and foul— 540

  But save us from yon screeching owl!”

  That instant was begun a fray

  Which called their thoughts another way:

  The mastiff, ill-conditioned carl!

  What must he do but growl and snarl,

  Still more and more dissatisfied

  With the meek comrade at his side!

  Till, not incensed though put to proof,

  The Ass, uplifting a hind hoof,

  Salutes the Mastiff on the head; 550

  And so were better manners bred,

  And all was calmed and quieted.

  “Yon screech-owl,” says the Sailor, turning

  Back to his former cause of mourning,

  “Yon owl!—pray God that all be well!

  ‘Tis worse than any funeral bell;

  As sure as I’ve the gift of sight,

  We shall be meeting ghosts to-night!”

  —Said Benjamin, “This whip shall lay

  A thousand, if they cross our way. 560

  I know that Wanton’s noisy station,

  I know him and his occupation;

  The jolly bird hath learned his cheer

  Upon the banks of Windermere;

  Where a tribe of them make merry,

  Mocking the Man that keeps the ferry;

  Hallooing from an open throat,

  Like travellers shouting for a boat.

  —The tricks he learned at Windermere

  This vagrant owl is playing here—570

  That is the worst of his employment:

  He’s at the top of his enjoyment!”

  This explanation stilled the alarm,

  Cured the foreboder like a charm;

  This, and the manner, and the voice,

  Summoned the Sailor to rejoice;

  His heart is up—he fears no evil